The Curse of Kesha
by The Impossible Slashtronaut
Summary: Mycroft wakes up in the morning feeling like P. Diddy. So does everyone else. Almost song-fic; crack. No slash, just crack and a Kesha parody. Rated T for safety. Possibly the longest fic I've written in a while. One-shot. Feel free to sing along.


**As before, this one was churned out in English class. I don't know what to say except that Ke$ha is the owner of "Tik Tok." Sherlock is the combined work of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss, and His Grand Moffness Steven Moffat, aka the man who is responsible for making my brain implode six times in a week.**

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><p>Sherlock knew something odd was going on when he woke up that morning at 221B Baker Street.<p>

"_Time to wake up, time to start a new day! Time to wake my body, mind and soul! Time to brush my teeth and wash my face and pour my morning tea, time to update my website and solve a mystery!_" sang Sherlock in a pleasingly buttery baritone. He had gotten up that morning with a disturbingly peppy air about him. He found this quite odd. He never sang except when he was in the shower.

As he hummed to himself while pouring his tea, Watson shuffled into the kitchen, yawned, and opened his mouth.

"_Did you have a pleasant sleep, Sherlock? Did you count a lot of sheep, Sherlock? I am brimming with wit, Sherlock – and by that I mean, 'Oh shit, Sherlock!_"

"_I find this rather odd, perhaps we have been cursed – I think something is causing us to speak – no, sing – in verse!_" finished Sherlock, hitting a smooth belty note. Watson swigged his tea and began to sing again:

"_Do you think it's your skull that Ms Hudson threw away? I'd suspect this is the work of an evil spirit at play. I find this so peculiar; Sherlock – d'you know what I find strange? You sing in your own baritone, while I'm in opera raaaaaaaaange!"_ sang Watson, hitting a lovely high C most men could never hit even if they tried. Sherlock clapped mockingly, swigged his tea down, and jumped on the table.

"_My skull? My God, I seem to have forgot! She threw it out, without a doubt the skull's curse hath been wrought. Oh God, Watson, I need your help, we're going down the drain. Help me track down my lovely skull Ms Hudson threw away!"_

"_Surely this is all her doing, either that or something worse…. Moriarty –"_

Sherlock spat out his tea at Watson's mention of his archenemy.

"_Moriarty? Oh, damn, Watson, Jim's a jerk. I shall call my brother Mycroft, he could help us solve this crime!_"

Watson nodded. "_Good idea, I'll go call him; maybe he won't text this time!"_

Suddenly, a window in the living room shattered, and in came Moriarty!

"_Oh Sherlock Holmesie, you and your homie – what's-his-name – who freaking cares – are going to pay! I woke up singing; I had a feeling that my archrival Sherlock Holmes was to blame!"_

"_Oh, shut up Jim!" _sang Watson in his high soprano.

Suddenly, the door to the flat opened and Mycroft stepped in, wearing purple silk pyjamas and carrying his umbrella. He cleared his throat and sang.

"_I woke up in the morning feeling like P. Diddy – I stayed in my silk pyjamas as I hit the city – before I left, brushed my teeth with a highball of gin – `cause when I left for your flat I knew the trouble I was in!"_

Sherlock and Watson joined in.

"_Bunny slippers on your toes, toes – trying to get a scone, scone – texting up Watson's phone, phone – shut up, Jim! – Heading up to our sortie – something's going on that's fishy – shut up, Moriarty," _they sang in unison, sounding uncannily autotuned.

Moriarty interrupted them.

"_Shut up, boys, shut up! I wish I could blow you up tonight – I'mma fight you until you all die! Tik tok, on the clock, but this party won't stop, no!_" sang Moriarty, sounding very much like Adam Lambert.

Sherlock jumped off the table and landed on his feet like a cat. He began to retort.

"_Ain't got a care in the world except for Watson – Jim, dear, it's plain to see that you have no business in here –"_

"_Mr. Watson, I presume is your boyfriend, how fine – I can't wait to see the wedding photos once they're online!" _sang Moriarty with a sneer.

"_Shut up with all this junk – Mr. Moriarty, you punk, are you insane or merely drunk?_" sang Mycroft questioningly. He pointed his umbrella at Moriarty threateningly.

Suddenly, the door burst open again and Lestrade ran into the room, waving his badge in the air.

"_I finally came around – the police will shut you down. Popo, shut them down!" _Lestrade sang. Surprisingly, no policemen came in after him. He shrugged.

"_Just stop, people stop – noise disturbance is a noted crime in London for nearly all of time – tik tok on the clock, time for your party to stop, yo."_

"_NOHOHOHOHOH!"_ wailed Moriarty, hitting a high note like a glam rocker. Sherlock strode angrily up to his rival and stared him right in the face.

"_You build me up, you break me down, my hatred's grounded, you got me. You got me now, put your hands up, put your hands up, 'cause you're not me. Put your hands up, put your hands up!" _ Sherlock pulled his gun out of his pocket and pointed it at Moriarty, who smiled widely as the barrel of the gun touched his forehead.

Suddenly, Christopher Walken appeared in the room.

"_Now the party don't start til I walk in… also, needs more cowbell._"

After he said this, he disappeared. Everyone in 221B Baker Street was silent for some time. Finally, Watson broke the silence with his piercing soprano.

"_DON'T STOP, MAKE IT POP, DJ BLOW MY SPEAKERS UP TONIGHT! IMMA FIGHT TIL WE SEE THE SUNLIGHT! TIK TOK ON THE CLOCK BUT THE PARTY DON'T STOP, NO!"_

Sherlock woke up sweating in his bed. _Dear God_, he thought to himself, _never wear five patches to bed._


End file.
